Empty House Empty Fridge
by darthsydious
Summary: Based on a scene from The Six Thatchers. Poor Mycroft. Molly will set him to rights! Mollcroft brotp beginnings. Also Sherlolly!


Mycroft hung his umbrella on the coat rack followed by his briefcase by the door. With a tired sigh, he reached up for his necktie, loosening the silky fabric. Stomach rumbling, he headed for the kitchen. The housekeeper had long come and gone. Opening the door of the fridge he scanned the contents, hoping for whatever reason for there to be something other than what had been in there for the past month. He didn't know why he'd even bothered, really. He knew very well the contents of the refrigerator amounted to a jar of mustard, a small, very old pot of jam, a brown banana and a half-eaten cheese and onion sandwich with the label missing. Nothing very appealing. He shut the fridge and looked at the menus tacked to the door.

 _Thai_

 _Chinese_

 _Indian_

 _Pizza_

He plucked at one of the menus, deciding one was just as good as the other. The sticky note under the menu reminded him that it was time for his usual call. Checking his watch, he decided it was not too late, and picked up the landline. As it happened, Sherrinford was unavailable. Another weary sigh as he hung up the phone.

He considered just going to bed, but his stomach protested again, vociferously. He could certainly ignore his hunger pains, but it would mean low blood sugar in the morning and a much slower start to the day as he'd need to double his protein intake. He looked at the take away menu still in his hand. Just as he was about to say sod it all and go to bed, there was a knock on his door.

"Who on earth-" the alarm suddenly blared and Mycroft rolled his eyes. Going to the door, he punched in a keycode and the security monitor on the wall switched on. There, to his surprise, stood Molly Hooper, struggling with several bags of groceries. Two of his security team were advancing on her as she wrestled with the key in the lock.

Hurrying to unlock the front door, he waved the men away. "It's all right," he said to the men. Seeing their boss, they both lowered their guns. Molly turned, surprised to see the guards, and then to Mycroft.

"I'm sorry, I hadn't meant to set anything off, Sherlock said the key worked."

"Yes, with the pass code. Thank you, gentlemen, as you were."

"Sir," they saluted him, waited for Molly to step in and the door to be shut before dispersing.

"Doctor Hooper," Mycroft grasped his hands behind his back, watching with some amusement as she boosted one of the bags of groceries up with her knee. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I'm upset with John at the moment," she said, as if that explained her presence. He blinked. She gave him a look. "Really? You of all people?"

"Oh, yes, his minor infidelity. Hm. It was unfortunate."

"Stupid, selfish-" she held her tongue, shutting her eyes, she took a breath. "Sherlock says you never go to the shops, so I brought you some groceries."

"I see," he said, smiling pleasantly at her still struggling with the bags. "Why?"

"Because Sherlock is busy, I'm not speaking to John, and I requested the week off, since Mary died."

"You are bored."

"No," she shook her head. "Well, that's part of it, I'm bored, and I thought if I wanted for company, you might too."

Mycroft looked uncomfortable. "Doctor Hooper, as flattered as I am-"

"Oh for pity's sake," she thrust a bag of groceries into his arms, tired of wrestling with it. "You Holmes men always think so well of yourselves! I'm bored, and I felt bad because you've got an empty fridge! Do you want supper or not?!" With that she headed into the kitchen.

Confused, albeit relieved, Mycroft followed after her.

"Thank you, Doctor Hooper," he said at last as she turned on the kitchen light and set about preheating the oven. "I am sure I can manage from here."

"Just-" she held out a hand to silence him. "Let me take care of someone tonight, please? I've just had to tell off John for his..." she bit her lip, shaking her head. "Never mind. And Sherlock is so upset, he's gone off to one of his boxing clubs, which I grant you is a healthier option than most." She let her hands drop to her sides. "I just want to help someone tonight, Mycroft. I want to do _some_ good."

"If it means that much to you," he said at last, befuddled that such a caring woman would come to him of all people. "By all means, Doctor Hooper," he handed her the bag of groceries which she took, setting it on the counter by the others.

"Thank you," she said. "And call me Molly, I won't feel as if I'm on the docket then," she smiled wryly. "Go on with whatever it is you were doing before, I'll call when dinner is ready."

Knowing when he was being mothered and simultaneously booted out of his own kitchen, Mycroft left her to her own devices. He decided to try Sherrinford again, and this time, got through. It was...informative, to say the least. That out of the way, he settled in to look over the papers he'd brought home with him.

Soon enough, the smell of good food cooking began to fill the house. Looking up from his computer, he tugged his glasses from his nose and set them aside. He could hear someone speaking to Molly. Getting to his feet, he followed the sounds to the kitchen.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, looking, at least for him, somewhat surprised.

Sherlock popped a piece of bread in his mouth beaming. "Surprised, brother-mine?"

"Since you have not set foot in my house in five years, yes." Hands in his pockets, he studied his younger brother. "I see you are still unbeaten in the ring."

"Hmm."

"You still haven't said why you're here," Mycroft pressed.

"Molly is cooking," Sherlock replied. He reached to taste whatever was in the pot, but Molly batted his hand away.

"Wait," she took the spoon, stirring the sauce once more and then held it out for him to taste.

"Humm...more oregano-"

"No, you're confusing herbs, stop it," Molly took the jar out of his hands. "If you want something to do, go get plates."

Mycroft stood back, thoroughly amused, and surprised, at the ease of his brother and Doctor Hooper, er, that is Molly, as they moved about the kitchen.

"Nothing fancy," Molly admitted, when Mycroft came to inspect what was cooking. "Pasta puttanesca, and some bakewell tarts for dessert, but it'll be filling."

"I'm sure my brother has a bottle of wine that will compliment it splendidly," Sherlock put in.

Mycroft made a face at the store bought tarts, but said nothing. "I have in the wine fridge," he said and retreated across the kitchen to find something suitable.

Glasses were generously filled (that seemed appropriate, at any rate after the day they'd all had), food plated, they shuffled through to the dining room, beginning to truly feel the effects of the wearisome day. It was odd, eating a meal with his brother and his...friend? He studied Molly and Sherlock. They conversed like a couple. A couple that knew each other inside and out.

Ah.

"How long have you been together?"

Sherlock coughed into his glass, choking. Molly simply wiped her mouth.

"Since he got back from his exile."

Mycroft studied his brother carefully. "Dear God, is that- is that why you were behaving like an imbecile when I took you to MI5?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny," Sherlock replied smugly, but under the table, he squeezed Molly's knee affectionately.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Well there is some good news in this wretched day after all." he stood with a contented sigh of fullness, going to the counter to refill his glass. "My compliments Molly, do let me know if he misbehaves. I can have him put in the Tower, if you like."

"What, really?" she laughed.

"Hmmhmm," Mycroft hummed, taking a swallow of wine. "I'll see you have the proper pass-code for the front door as well."

"Thank you," she murmured, pleased that he approved. Sherlock grasped her hand, thumbing circles over it.

"Not at all," Mycroft waved his hand. "I am usually home the thirteenth, if you would care to continue this..." he gestured between them. "Sort of thing."

"I imagine it won't be every month," Molly said. "But I can make sure you've got groceries or at least something to heat up."

Mycroft looked to his brother for any indication of his disapproval. Seeing none, he turned back to Molly. "I have no objections. And I shall endeavor to be here for dinner."

"Good," she nodded. "You've been eating take-away too many nights, Mycroft." With that she got up, kissed Sherlock's cheek, and began clearing away.

From the doorway of the dining room, they watched her move about the kitchen.

"She likes taking care of people," Sherlock murmured. "She was quite upset when I told her your fridge was empty on a weekly basis."

"I expect she's tired of trying to get you to eat."

"I eat," Sherlock insisted. "More than I used to, at any rate. Anyway, she insisted she come tonight and look after you, and as there was no one worth my time at the boxing ring, I decided to join her."

Mycroft looked at his brother, studying him. "Sentiment, brother mine?"

Sherlock met his gaze. "Perhaps."

After a moment, Mycroft shrugged, downing the last of the wine in his glass. "Well there are worse ways to spend a Sunday evening."

"Indeed." They turned back to the kitchen, where Molly was boxing up the leftover sauce and pasta, wiping down the stove and loading the dishwasher.

"Is it odd, having her around so often?" Mycroft asked.

"No," Sherlock replied. "It's...very good. Better than good."

"I expect it'll be different, her being here, compared to when she's at yours."

"It had better be," Sherlock answered.

"Still..." Mycroft watched Molly move around the kitchen, humming to herself. "I'd always wanted a sister." Feeling Sherlock's look of surprise, he smirked at his brother. "Just a hint, brother-mine." with that he went back to his office to put out the lights. "Give my compliments to the chef," he called over his shoulder. "And lock up when you two leave."

Heading up to bed, stomach full, and with the knowledge that the fridge now had left overs and groceries for the week, Mycroft could go to sleep with a comparatively restful mind. True, it was not how he usually spent his evenings, but then...there were worse ways to spend a Sunday.


End file.
